“The Moral Bucket List,” divides bucket
stuff into two groups; things we want to do or achieve and the person we want
to become.

“To do” bucket lists include adventures
we hope to experience, places we want to visit, and accomplishments that look
good on our resume.

The “becoming” bucket list is about values and
virtues—discovering our purpose and building our character.

When I started my blog, Know Hope Know Growth earlier
this year, I wrote the tag line, Hope
is trusting things ultimately work out the way they are supposed to--and seeing
opportunities to learn in even life's toughest stuff.

Mr.Brook’s article helped me realize I do have a
bucket list. It’s to live up to that tag line and become the best I can be
at trust, and hope, and letting go.

Living up to that tag line is my resolution for 2016. Are you making any resolutions this year?My new year's wish for each of you is that you know the
hope, trust, and magic of letting go of something you fear.

I hope you’ll keep coming back to Know
Hope Know Growth and share your comments. Your insights mean a lot to me and always help me learn and grow. Happy New Year.

Carol (P.S. Is anyone who knows me surprised I have a beach bucket list? )

Wednesday, December 23, 2015

A ceiling-high
evergreen with its sweet forest scent is among my favorite holiday traditions.
So it’s a pretty big deal that for the first time in almost fifty years, my home
doesn’t boast a “real” Christmas tree.

My attachment
to Christmas trees is a cherished hand-me-down from my dad who died much too
young when I was twelve. Dad had a knack for scanning the tree lot to pick a
tree so full and tall. Even after cutting off a foot or so the trees of my
childhood overtook half of our enclosed front porch.

Trimming on
Christmas Eve was a hallowed occasion, retelling the history of and thoughtfully
placing each ornament—always, always, painstakingly lacing tinsel one strand at
a time.

I loved how
closing the French doors that led from the enclosed porch into the living room
trapped all of that wonderful tree smell inside.

So imagine
my distress the year my mother somehow coaxed my dad to “update” to a tacky, silver
aluminum tree. In spite of Dad’s efforts to cajole her back to reality and my sibs
and me pleading for our real tree, Mom prevailed. Dad reluctantly bought and set
up that make-pretend tree. Mom decked each gaudy stickly-excuse for a branch with
lore-less, uniform royal blue balls. No delicate teapots or ice
cycles or the
rare fluorescent lights from Dad’s childhood. The rotating color wheel beaming
up from the floor to bath the silver imposter in streams of green, orange,
blue, and red, just made it worse.

The Grinch Who Stole Christmas is a rookie
compared to that tree.

For months
after that sucker came down, my sibs and I staged a Dad-backed revolt. By the
next year, Mom relented and we had our real tree back, reassigning the silver
imposter to the shuffle board room in the basement.

After my dad
died, the silver tree resurrected for a couple of Christmas’s. By the time I
was a teen, I seized responsibility for buying and putting up the tree. With
the help of my friends, we’d cart a seven-footer the six or eight blocks from
the tree lot to our house and have a tree-trimming part on Christmas Eve.

Even when I
was single and lived in a third floor walk-up apartment, I found a way to have
a real ceiling-high tree.

So why is there
a four foot artificial tree, dubbed a “Charlie Brown tree” by our five year old
nephew, gracing our living room this year?

For years,
my husband Jim has caught a bad “cold” over the holidays. We blamed it on
holiday get-together hugging and kissing. I’ve suspected for years it was
really an evergreen allergy. Afraid admission would put my holiday tree in an endangered species;
I kept my suspicions to myself.

Then last
year, his cold progressed to bronchitis. He hacked his way through a steroid
dose-pack and two antibiotics without improving. Miraculously, he stopped coughing
and sneezing within hours of un-trimming and tossing the tree.

Now, I love
real trees, but I love Jim a lot more.

It turns
out, our four foot artificial tree is plenty big enough to display the delicate teapot
from my Dad’s childhood and the sentimental ornaments Jim and I acquired over
the years. We get ample whiffs of evergreen scent from the wreath on our front
door. I can have the things I love about a tree, and still take care of what I love
the most.

And, isn’t
being reminded what we love most what the holidays are really for?

Tuesday, December 1, 2015

Earlier this month, I read seven novels in two weeks—four for
book clubs and three because I committed to write reviews.

I love to read, but a book every other day—what was I thinking?
Reading at that pace felt too much like work.

And, speaking of work.

Like retired people do, since “sort of” retiring almost two
years ago, I joined a few new social groups. Pretty quickly, I was “invited” to
chair committees—an honor than in
social-group-speak means you get to do more work.

I used to fantasize about all the free time I’d have in
retirement. Turns out, having the gift of time depends on how well I say NO.

Saying no has never been my strong suit. I’m more the
over-commit-to-the-point-of-burn-out type.

I want retirement to be different—to stop multi-tasking, be
present in the moment, and savor one thing at a time.

Sure I want to read good books, meet new people, and make a
contribution. The trick is finding balance that leaves downtime to have fun, revel in life’s
everyday simple joys, and savor quiet time with Jim.

·Know your purpose – Do you
know the 80/20 Rule? Basically it says that 80% of value comes from 20% of “stuff.”

Once you figure out what gives you the most value and joy in you life, hone in on the handful (20%) of things that
bring you the most joy (80%). Say yes to the stuff that lines up with the 20%
and graciously say (gulp) no to all the rest.

·When Saying
No is Saying Yes – It can be
hard to say no, especially to someone you care for and don’t want to
disappoint. It helps to remember that saying no to stuff that brings you less
value means you give yourself the gift of time to say yes to the people and things that matter
most.

·Say No with
grace – To avoid feeling cornered into impulsively or guiltily saying
yes, a template or script helps. Something like, I appreciate your confidence in me. It’s
just not the right time for me to do this. Keep it simple, kind, and
sincere.

Time is infinite and precious. As hard as it is to say no, it’s
worth the effort when it leaves me the time to say Yes, Yes, Yes to the people
and things that matter most.

Wednesday, November 11, 2015

November 11th has special meaning as we remember and
honor those who have served and fought for our freedom and all that we are
thankful for.

This year, November 11th is also the one year anniversary
of my last chemo treatment—a marker in a different kind of battle, a very
personal war.

So what has changed in a year?

For one thing, I have a head full of hair—an external
sign that the “good” cells affected by treatment are healing. My body once
again feels like my own.

That leaves my mind and spirit.

A phone message from the doctor’s office still sends a
shiver through me, even when it can’t be bad news because I haven’t had a test
or exam in weeks. I get that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach when I hear about
someone else’s cancer recurrence. The difference, 12 months later, is most
days, I’m strong enough to remind myself everyone’s cancer is
different. Today, it’s easier not to take another person’s cancer outcome on as
my own.

I am more acutely aware that cancer is everywhere.
It’s not just the people we know who have it; it’s the daily mention of cancer in
the news, commercials, books and TV. The next time someone has cancer on a TV
show, note the bleakness in everyone’s voice and eyes when we learn that it’s stage 4. Am I the only one who never noticed
before that cancer is always stage 4
and seemingly hopeless on TV?

In almost every novel I read, there’s a character—usually
a woman—that dies from cancer. Am I reading too much women’s lit?

A year ago those TV shows and books freaked me out so
much I had to turn the show off or put the book down. Today, I try to remind myself they
are not my life.

Saturday, October 31, 2015

What struck me as a re-read my blog post is that I had no idea my life was about to change in a big way--just a few weeks later, I was diagnosed with uterine cancer. Talk about putting optimism to the test.

My blog post today is a link to my essay about Cancer in the Rearview Mirror, published in the Philadelphia Inquirer.

Friday, October 16, 2015

While cleaning out a file drawer, I found an assessment from
when I worked full-time. Unlike a typical performance evaluation, this was a “360”
where you get feedback from colleagues at different levels—your boss, peers, people
you manage or mentor.

At first, I didn’t want to look at it because I remember
being disappointed in the results.

I looked at it anyway. To my surprise, my performance was rated
in “excellent shape.”

So why had “excellent shape” disappointed me?

In a few areas, one or two people disagreed with the
majority—16 people said I was a very good or excellent listener, encouraging
and sensitive to others’ needs, fair and consistent.

Like many things in life, perfectionism in moderation can be beneficial. It helps me to set
high standards, reach for goals, and be true to my values.

What’s not beneficial is perfectionism
on steroids that obsesses about the expectations of others and fixates on failings
and mistakes. I've worked on modulating hyper-active perfectionism most of my adult life.

It helps me to refocus on Progress not Perfection. Today, I know I’m making progress and growing, because
I look at that old “360” and instead of the negative it's the positive that stands out.

So what do you think, is Progress not Perfection what hope
and growth are all about?

Saturday, October 3, 2015

I was twenty-something when my career in Human Resources started—around
that same time I began saying I wanted to write a book.

By my mid-thirties, I already
knew there were parts of Human Resources work I loved and parts I didn’t love
at all. My job required both parts, and I did them because that’s what you do
when you have a family, mortgage, other bills, and want to get ahead and climb
the corporate ladder.

I didn't realize back then that in the midst of that juggling act, I had already started taking steps
towards living my life on purpose.

To progress in my H.R.career, I needed a Master’s degree. As an
H. R. Executive, the logical degree was a Master’s in
Business Administration. MBA meant statistics, accounting, and finance, the
parts of H.R. I didn’t love. I wanted to excel in coaching, counselling, and
training—the work I found most meaningful. In spite of colleagues telling me the
“wrong” degree might derail my career, I followed my heart—and my purpose—and
earned my Masters in Health Education and Employee Counseling.

Shortly after, I accepted an HR Executive position
that meant moving from Philly to the Jersey Shore. Living “down the shore” had been
one of my dreams since I was twenty-something. Achieving that dream when we
moved to Cape May reminded me I had been carrying another dream around since my
twenties—the dream about writing a book.

I joined my first creative writing group. At my
second meeting, I read three hand-scribbled pages that had taken hours to
write. I didn’t know it then, but those pages were the beginning of my first
novel, PEACE BY PIECE.

Three scribbly pages for my book--a huge step towards life on purpose.

That writing group led to more steps—writing workshops,
conferences, and eventually earning my Masters of Fine Arts/MFA in Creative
Writing.

By then, I was fifty-something and
determined to finally stop doing the parts of HR I didn’t love. With the support of my boss, I set a goal to not be in my job by the end of the year. Months later, I was happily coaching and training--the
meaningful work that, along with writing, I know is my work life’s purpose.

So I ask again. Are you living your life on purpose?

And, just how do you discover your life’s purpose?

If you had asked me as a child what I wanted to be when I grew
up, I would have said, a nurse, teacher, or librarian. I spent my career
in healthcare, teach adults, and devote a load of my time to writing and
books.

My child-self was pretty close. I knew my purpose as a child. I’m betting you did too.

Friday, September 18, 2015

On my morning walk, a few hours before my last oncology
follow-up, I found a heads-up penny. I instantly pocketed it, believing it
would bring me good luck.

When my nose itches, I preemptively kiss Jim, wanting to be on
the right side of “have a fight or kiss a fool.”

Twitching left eyelids, itchy palms, moths in the house, cardinals
in my yard-you might call them superstitions. My Italian mother taught me they
are signs of respectively; good news, unexpected money, and souls in my midst.

The number 1017 is another very personal sign. It may not mean
anything to you. For me, 1017 will only ever mean the day my father died.

Since being diagnosed with cancer last year, I cannot tell you
how frequently I see or hear the numbers 1017—on the clock, a ticket stub, cash
register receipt, an address—countless times and ways the numbers
1017 show up. And, every time they do, it feels like a sign my dad has my back.

One day at a time, I'm adjusting to this stage “beyond” cancer treatment, trying to shove
cancer so far behind me, I stop fearing its return. The exception--my follow-up oncology visits still freak me out.

Finding that penny the morning of my last oncology visit was
only the first sign. A couple of hours later, as I stoically got ready to leave
the house for my appointment, Jim looked up from the newspaper and said, “Wow,
it’s already 10:17. Where did that last hour go?”

He could have rounded back to 10:15 or up to 10:20. The fact
that he said 10:17 felt like my dad telling me we had this and my visit
would be fine.

And, it was.

Does this all sound eerie and far-fetched? Or, like me, are you
a sign-believer, too?

Sunday, September 13, 2015

Helena is a writer from "the other side of the pond," and we met in a Facebook writing group. I value her positive outlook and believe you will, too.

KEEPING THE FAITH

When I met my husband 16 years ago, we both shared the same
dream of one day retiring to Spain. Over time, the stress and pressure of work,
made him feel there was no way he could learn a new language, he was too old,
and thus our dreamed died.

Some years later, after seeing our teenager through cancer
and losing a parent in the same year, we re-evaluated our lives. We started
spending the summers touring France and fell in love with the country and the
lifestyle, and our dream was resurrected. Hubby even took French lessons.

Recently, we decided that as our daughter was over 2 years in remission, had
dealt with her demons and was in a happy relationship, our son had completed his
electrical apprenticeship and was enjoying his new flat and the older three were
all settled with good jobs and partners, it was time for us to think seriously
about our new life in France and so we found a house and it’s full steam ahead
with the purchase

However, yesterday I found myselfback in the cancer hospital with my daughter.
I had stopped going to the check-ups with her some time ago, as it’s a good
hour from my house, whereas she works nearby and was happy to go alone. I felt
she was showing signs of premature menopause and her GP was not taking her
seriously, so I needed to step in and insist on a referral to the fertility
clinic, as she desperately wants to start a family soon. It might be nothing,
and I hope it is, but I didn’t want to ignore it and then it be too late to
save some of her eggs.

As we sat in the waiting room for an hour and a half - they
are always running late - I could hear a beeping noise coming from a nearby
ward. My mind recognized the sound, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it
and then my daughter shivered and said ‘I hate that sound.’ Memories came
flooding back as I realized it was the sound of the chemo machines and I was
quite overwhelmed. I have a habit of shutting out anything bad in my life and
this was just another event that I had packed neatly away. I felt guilty for
not going with her to all the check-ups, as I realized she must feel the same
each time she came here.

I didn’t have much of a battle with the consultant. After
explaining her symptoms, he agreed that she needed to be referred, which
actually worried me more. So we now find ourselves back again to hoping for the
best and agreeing to take it one step at a time, but that is all you can do in
life. There is no point in wasting your precious days worrying and being upset,
it won’t change anything. Make the most of each day and deal with the bad if,
and when it happens. You don’t need to be religious to have faith and hope, and
as for France, that will still happen, albeit perhaps a little later than
intended.

Helena Johnson is a writer, wife and mother, living in beautiful North Yorkshire, with her husband and two dogs. Find her blog at: http://helenajohnsonauthor.com/

Her daughter's cancer inspired her to write, Coffee "n" Cake Short Stories, a small collection of heartwarming short stories about love and life. All profits go to Teenage Cancer Trust. http://helenajohnsonauthor.com/books-for-sale/

Thursday, August 27, 2015

I’ve packed and given away boxes of hardly used dishware,
knick-knacks, and holiday decorations, a book-case worth of books. With minimal
hand-wringing, I’ve donated thousands of dollars’ worth of suites and other “work”
clothes.

So, why are the shrunken t-shirt Jim bought me on our
first date and my threadbare Margate circa mid-1970 cut-offs still in the
drawer? Why do these relics—that no longer fit me—never make the donate-or-toss-it
cut?

When my mom died several years ago, my siblings and I
went through the ritual disbursing of her stuff. I carefully choose what to
keep—the Hummel I bought her when I back-packed through Europe, a chipped vase from
my childhood, a mama and baby snowman from her holiday collection, the library
desk where I spent hours as a teen talking on the phone. I kept her red polo
shirt with blue flowers on the collar—not because I’ll ever wear it—it just
looks so much like her. Beyond that short list and some family pictures, there
was a lifetime of her stuff I was able to let go.

And yet.

When I came across a tattered envelope with, “Cindy’s
Wedding,” scrawled across the front in my mother’s handwriting, I could not bring
myself to toss it.Something about her
handwriting as familiar to me as her smile and her voice, just like that red
polo, felt too personal to let go.

I can’t explain it. Maybe that’s because there isn’t a
rational explanation for what we keep.

What do you think? When you sort through your stuff, do
you know why you keep what you keep and why you let other stuff go?

Sunday, August 16, 2015

If you have followed my emotional tug-of-war
this past year, you know my feelings have boomeranged from denial, fear and
projection to fragile acceptance and hope.

Habits learned over years in a 12 Step
program—one day at a time, letting go, acceptance, courage, first things first—became
life lines, put to a new kind of test. Even after years of “12 step practice”
there have been days I needed to repeat the Serenity Prayer so many times, I
nearly wore it out.

So I was intrigued recently when I heard someone
talk about letting go as if it’s a one-time event. Like, it’s an on/off switch
or sports shoe slogan. Just do it. You
let go and presto. Fear and projection and worry are done.

If only.

I’ve worked on letting go for most of my
adult life. No doubt my over-developed sense of responsibility and amped-up
impulse to control spur my Groundhog Day approach to letting go—put it down, pick it up, give it over, take it
back.

I’ve been known to ceremonially let go by
writing down my worry, stuffing the paper into a jar, and tightly sealing the
top. Often that works. Sometimes, no lid is secure enough to guarantee I
won’t take the worry back.

Life would be simpler if I could learn to let things go once and
be able to move on. It’s just never been that way for me.

Sunday, August 9, 2015

I feel humbled and grateful every time someone asks if I’m
writing a sequel to CAPE MAYBE or PEACE BY PIECE, or hopefully inquires if I’ve
started another book.

So why do I also feel guilty each time I admit I’m not?

It’s not that I’m not writing—a blog post here, an article
there.

When I was still working in my day job, I faithfully wrote
at least eight or ten new pages a week. For several years, I belonged to a
small writing critique group with a few retired men. Week after week, I’d bring
a new chapter to the group. The retired guys might have a few new pages. I didn’t get it and once said something
like, “I work 50+ hours a week and commute 100 miles a day and still find time
to write. You have all day. How do I
always find more time to write than you?”

In a voice that felt like a pat on the head, one of them said,
“Time is different when you’re retired, you’ll see.”

I love writing and always envisioned that when I retired, I’d
write full-time. The thing is; loving writing doesn’t change the fact that writing
is hard work. I’ve worked a lot in my life. Is more hard work the best use
of my retirement time?

When I first retired, slowing down was harder than I
expected. I couldn’t imagine how I’d fill my days. Now that I’m getting the
hang of it, I am surprised to find how much I enjoy life without appointments
and deadlines—how much I relish quiet time with Jim, and just doing one thing
at a time.

Waiting for hummingbirds to flint by my office
window, or dolphins to break the water’s surface, is a pretty amazing gig.

Am I rationalizing and being lazy, or is
my job right now to learn and embrace the art of slowing down?

Sunday, July 26, 2015

My blog encourages looking ahead with hope and thinking
positive, so it’s humbling to admit how often I find myself looking back, acutely
aware of what I was doing this time last year.

One year ago this week, my first chemo treatment loomed. Now,
six months of chemo and radiation are six months behind me. My first set of scans
and exams show no evidence of cancer. I feel healthy, and unless friends and
family are just being nice, I look healthy, too. My scarves and never-worn wig are
all packed away. My hair is back and I am active and able to do everything I
did before.

Most days, I dare to
believe that we kicked cancer’s butt.

And yet.

The fear of recurrence still loiters inside me. Turns
out, the Cancer journey doesn’t end with diagnosis and treatment. There’s a
stage called beyond.

The shadow of cancer is not easy to shake.

Last week, a neighbor asked me why I still have the chemo
port imbedded in my chest. I told her they usually leave it in about a year,
and I purposely haven’t asked the doctor about taking it out. Part of me wants
to keep it for the same reason I stowed away the scarves and unworn wig—hoping as
long as I own them, I’ll never need them again.

“Ah, bargaining,” my neighbor said.

As soon as she said it, it hit me—denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. Bargaining
is one of the stages of grief!

I keep thinking I should be done with grieve and fear by
now, that I should have arrived at acceptance.
Then I remind myself that grief has no timeframe—it is not a straight line.

I have a newfound respect for every cancer survivor striding
beyond cancer to their five-year
cancer-free anniversary.

How did I never see their courage before or realize they
take each determined step with the shadow of cancer still nipping at their heels?

Sunday, June 21, 2015

I am four or five, riding
the subway with my Dad, because he is still a couple of years away from owning
his first used car—a 1953 or ’54 Chevy. I bounce on his shoulders, knees
pressed against his ears. His hard-work hands circle my ankles as he paces
along the platform. At that height, I am nearly eye level with the Chicklet
vending machine. He digs two pennies from his pocket and I plunk them into the
slot all by myself. The little yellow box with two Chicklets tumbles out and he
lets me chew both.

Riding the
merry-go-round at Hunting Park, I reach for the brass ring each time we go
around. Daddy holds my waist so I stretch as far as I can, knowing he won’t let
me fall. My arms are always too short.

I lay across his
sturdy hands in the ocean, flapping my arms and kicking my legs, learning how to
float. Later, he pushes the blue canvas stroller I am at least a year too old
for, and trots from one end of the boardwalk to the other.I climb to the very
top of the monkey bars at the playground willing myself to strap my legs over
the bar and hang upside down. Daddy watches from below. He never seems disappointed
that not once am I brave enough to lock my knees, trust my legs, and let go.

At my Girl Scout
meeting, the leader needs volunteer drivers for our next outing. Dad owns the
Chevy by then and I know without having to ask him that he will say yes. I
proudly raise my hand.

We are in the living
room. It is sometime after the brain surgery that made it hard for him to talk.
He scrunches his eyes, gestures with him arms. He struggles to squeeze out
words that I do not understand. Finally, I figure out he wants to know how I’m
getting to Girl Scout camp. I tell him my uncle, his brother, will drive me and
a smile spreads across his face. He will never walk, or talk, or drive again,
but inside, he is still my Dad.

The Father’s Day right
after that would be our last. I was twelve when he died and Father’s Day has always
been hard for me. Most years, I just try to ignore it.

There’s a line in my
novel, CAPE MAYBE, where the narrator, Katie says, “I don’t remember my
father, but I miss him as if I do.” Unlike Katie, I did get to know and
remember my Dad. He was burly, consistent, and dependable, a mystifying balance
of gregarious and reserved. Because he died when I was so young, all of my
memories of him are tinged with childlike awe. I wish my adult self could have
known him, even if that means I would have learned he had some flaws.

You hear people say, “A
day doesn’t go by that I don’t miss him.” The truth is, I don’t think about or
long for my dad every day. But even after 50 years, there are many days
when the ache of missing him is so raw, it still feels new.

Recently, a friend who
also misses having her dad in her life referred to him as the one who got
away. That really struck a chord with me. Does it resonate with you?

Wednesday, June 17, 2015

Recently, I
saw a TV clip about a man who was shot and killed many years ago during a
robbery. In the piece, the murdered man’s grown son met and hugged and forgave his
father’s murderer.

I know the
anguish of losing a father as a child, and the lifelong ache of growing up without
him. If instead of cancer, another man had killed my dad, could I bring myself to
forgive him?

Even when
people hurt us by accident, forgiving can be hard. If someone harms us on
purpose, forgiveness can feel impossible. Like most people, I’ve had my share
of opportunities to practice forgiveness. The toughest for me was forgiving
Jim’s ex-wife. I thought I’d faced my harshest forgiveness test, when weeks
before my step-daughter’s wedding, her mother left a phone message uninviting
our entire side of the family to the wedding. She gloated that it had been her
plot all along.

A year later
when my stepdaughter was pregnant with our first grandchild, her mother outdid
herself on the forgiveness meter. She issued an ultimatum to Jim’s son and
daughter—I won’t share my grandchildren. Pick me or your father to be in your life.

Forgiving her,
and them for accepting her ultimatum, has taught me more than I ever wanted to
learn about forgiveness. I’ve yearned for my father most of my life. How can
Jim’s children purposely waste theirs? Even all these years later, as Father’s
Day approaches and old hurts resurface, it helps to remind myself of the four
must-know lessons I’ve learned about Forgiveness.

1)Forgiveness is for me, not the other
person. I learned the
hard way that holding grudges and obsessing about revenge causes me as much or
more pain than the original offense. Forgiving turns off the resentment-replay
machine in my head, so I can let go and move on.

2)My
own expectations contribute to being hurt by others. Other people don’t always make the
choices I think they “should.” I feel calmer and happier when I accept others as they are and don’t
“should” on them.

3)I feel best about myself when I
practice the golden and platinum rules—treat
others the way I want to be treated, or even better the way they want to be treated. I can hope
others behave a certain way in return—I can’t control their actions.

4)Forgiveness makes room for hope. Sometimes we have to let go of
something—even something precious to us—to make room for something else. Hope
helps me believe things will turn out the way they are supposed to and the
future will make sense of the past.

Forgiving has
a magical ability to open our hearts and make room for something better.

Are there resentments
you have held for too long? Is it time to lighten your load and forgive?

And, isn’t feeling
good and having a happier life, ultimately the best revenge?

Sunday, May 31, 2015

I probably don’t have to tell you, some days, having cancer,
chemo, and radiation sucked. Early on, fear and gloom hijacked most of my
thoughts. As my family and friends rallied with prayers, support, and encouragement,
something pretty amazing happened. I realized I had a choice—let the dread
consume me, or one day at a time choose hope.

If cancer taught me anything, it taught me HOPE IS A CHOICE.

In creating this new blog, Know Hope Know Growth, I thought
a lot about life being a cycle of ups and downs. For me, hope means continual attitude
adjustments to focus on the ups. Hope means noticing and being grateful for the
little things, and looking for the opportunity to learn from the downs.

Hope means trusting that while things won’t always turn out
the way I want; they will always turn out the way they are supposed to, and that I’ll get what I need to accept what I get
when I don’t get what I want.

All of that, and what we learn from the ups and downs, is what I hope
we can talk about here.

So, let’s get the conversation going in comments. Do any of
my thoughts on hope feel familiar, and what does hope mean to you?

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Carol's Novels - CAPE MAYBE and PEACE BY PIECE

About Me

Always top of my gratitude list is my husband Jim, our marriage and living in Cape May. Writing non-fiction keeps me humble, helps me make course corrections, and see everywhere the opportunities to learn. Writing fiction lets my creativity come out to play. You can follow this link Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/dp/0615741010 to check out my novels, Peace by Piece and Cape Maybe